The Approaching Storm
by Teobi
Summary: Mother could always see what he couldn't, and she knows that things are changing. Genfic, no gore.
A/N: So, I am waiting for my Psycho box set (woo hoo!) and still winging it with these stories. At the end of Psycho II, Norman gets his 'mother' back. (In the most awesome way.) This fic is set shortly after that happens, and I guess a lot of it is metaphorical. Again, no direct connection to the movies and no mention of any other characters, just a little story about Norman and his mother. x

oOoOoOo

 **The Approaching Storm**

Norman couldn't remember a time when the horizon wasn't blurred, not much of a distinction between things that were solid and things that were not. The weather out here was mostly fair and often good, but now and again an angry sky would obliterate the horizon altogether. Then the rain would drip, drip, drip down the window pane while Norman lay in bed, watery shadows tangling through his eyelashes, running in black tears down his cheeks. Those were long, empty nights, _dirty_ nights, when Norman questioned the existence of everything.

Today though, it was dry. There was a line of cloud buckled against the hills, but nothing to worry about.

Norman rubbed a smudge on the window before realizing it was on the outside of the glass. He wondered if perhaps a bird had flown into it by accident. He resolved to check the ground outside as soon as possible; there was no sense in wasting a good bird if there was one lying around just waiting to shrivel and rot.

"It's a beautiful day, Mother." He spoke in a voice low and gentle, giving her time to respond. After a moment, he glanced sideways. "I said, it's a beautiful day, Mother."

There was an irritated sigh, and then a croaky voice.

"I heard you the first time, Norman."

Norman turned away from the window and crossed to the side of the bed, a bed that seemed far too big for the tiny frame huddled under the blankets. He leaned over his mother, teasing her with the sunny smile of a devoted son.

"I _knew_ you were awake."

"Pah- of course you did." A brittle pause, and then, "Well? Aren't you going to say 'Good Morning'?"

He bent over and pressed a kiss to her head, his lips brushing through coarse, dry hair.

"Good morning, Mother. I hope you slept well."

"No, I didn't sleep well. My neck hurts, the pillows are too high." Her tone of voice changed, became girlish and pleading. "Won't you fix them for me, Norman?"

The pillows looked all right to him, but he wasn't going to argue with her. He perched his lanky frame on the edge of the bed and plumped the pillows. Her head lolled to the side and he gently straightened it. After the pillows were fixed, Norman fanned her hair onto them like a halo. It was shorter now, because she was old, but she was still beautiful. So beautiful that he could almost forgive her for everything.

"Is that better for you?" he asked solicitously.

"Much better," she purred. "Oh, Norman, where would I be without you?"

Norman felt proud, as he always did, on the rare occasions that he pleased his mother. He looked down at her face, at her angelic expression, and even though he should have seen it coming, he pressed on with his next request.

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"Yes," she said, briskly. "You can clean that window properly. This place is falling apart!"

Norman's heart sank, a dead bird falling to the bottom of the cage. He should have remembered what she was like. He should never have agreed to fix the pillows because she always took advantage of his eagerness to please. In a fit of pique, he bunched his fist and thumped it down on the mattress. The bed shook and Mother's head rolled to the side, but this time he didn't touch her.

"Nothing gets past you, does it? The tiniest mark on the window, and you think it's the end of the world!"

She flashed her eyes in triumph. "You haven't changed a bit."

His jaw muscles tensed. "I was hoping _you_ would have."

"Me? There was never anything wrong with _me_."

With uncharacteristic boldness, perhaps from all those years he spent away, Norman got up from the bed and stood almost threateningly over her with his arms folded across his chest.

"There was plenty wrong with you, Mother. But I think we've fixed that, now."

"Don't be so sure," she murmured, a hideously girlish sing-song. " _I've_ always been perfectly fine. You were the broken one, Norman. You always were."

Norman's eyes glittered. "You can say what you like, but I'm not going to take it like I used to. I'm different now- I'm not a pushover anymore."

She gazed up at him, but her expression was unreadable. "Don't get fancy ideas, Norman. You may be a grown man, but you're still my son- my snot nosed baby. And while you live in my house, you abide by my rules. That was always the way, and that will _never_ be different."

Norman clenched his fists, knowing he'd lost. He headed for the door without looking at her.

"Where are you going?" she wheedled.

He closed his fist around the door handle, fighting the urge to turn around. "I'm going downstairs to fix breakfast."

"I want to sit by the window," she pleaded. "Put me by the window, Norman- and then you can do whatever you like."

Without a word or even a sigh, Norman returned to the bed and scooped her up. She hung limp in his arms, filling his nose with a dry, ancient odor, like mothballs or the inside of a tomb.

He sat her down in the old familiar armchair, arranged her limbs carefully and wrapped a shawl around her bony shoulders. "You're so thin," he observed. "You should eat more. Let me fix you breakfast."

"No thanks," she said, curtly. "I don't trust you."

Again, that awful feeling in his heart. "But, Mother- "

"But _no_ , Norman. Don't fuss over me, I don't want anything."

"Some tea, perhaps?" He persisted, knowing that he shouldn't.

She snorted loudly. "I've had my fill of tea from you, young man. That's all you do is give me tea, and it always tastes funny."

"I'm only trying to help," he cried. "All I ever did was try to help, to make things easier for you!"

"Well you didn't make things easier, and I don't need your help- I never did and I never will. As long as I can sit here and watch the motel, I have everything I need."

Norman stood behind his mother, gripping the back of her chair 'til his knuckles turned white. He focused on the horizon, trying to find the line that had always defied him, eluded him, teased him. But Norman had looked all his life, and nothing had ever become less blurred. He wondered if he was afraid of seeing- had _always_ been afraid of seeing, something so sharp that it might cut him.

The little smudge on the window that had barely bothered him now loomed large, a ghastly stain. It shamed him; how could he leave it like that? Mother was right- this place was falling apart. He must resolve to do better!

He let go of the chair and began slinking backwards. "I'll clean that glass," he said dully, all too aware that he'd surrendered with hardly a fight. "As soon I've eaten breakfast and cleaned the kitchen."

"See that you do," she replied, her eyes never moving from the window. "Oh, and Norman?"

He had almost, but not quite, made it to the door; his fingers twitching nervously towards the handle.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Batten down the hatches. There's a storm coming."

Without another word, Norman wrenched the door open and hurtled down the stairs. He couldn't understand it- they had both been looking out of the same window and yet she had seen all that he had missed. It frightened him now as much as it had ever done, the way she observed everything with perfect clarity. He was so sure the sky had looked clear enough that morning, but somehow the clouds had advanced without him knowing. He considered the possibility that she had made a mistake, if it were ever possible that she could do such a thing, but as he reached the bottom of the staircase and hit the hallway running, he could already hear the distant growl of thunder.


End file.
